FT MEADE 
GenCoi1 



IN HIGHWAYS 
AND BYWAYS 

R. D. BRODIE 













V 

























IN HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS 











IN HIGHWAYS 
AND BYWAYS 

SONNETS AND POEMS 

K jh 

BY 

R. D. BRODIE 

Author of “Changing Voices and Other Poems” 



THE TORCH PRESS 
CEDAR RAPIDS IOWA 



Copyright 1923 by 
R. D. Brodie 


l 


7°S 3So3 

?\L> 4 - J~£~ 


/1Z.5 




< 


% 

€ 


C 

* l 

* < 
€ I «C 
C 


DONE BY 

THE BOOKFELLOWS 
AT 

THE TORCH PRESS 
CEDAR RAPIDS 
IOWA 


DEC 29 ‘23 

©C1A7CB530 


CONTENTS 


In Highways and Byways .... 9 

Dissevered Friendship . ... IO 

The Labor of Love . . . . . 13 

Death is Yours . .... 15 

Winning Power . . . . . 16 

Out of Doors .18 

So Be It .19 

Not This Time ...... 20 

Friendship . . . . . . . 21 

The Making of Men .... 22 

Evening Shadows ..... 23 

Neither Poverty Nor Riches ... 25 

The Seeker ...... 26 

Rain in Sugar-Time ..... 28 

Falling Diamonds ..... 29 

To Urr: A Song That Was Sought . . 30 

A Lost Hostess . . . . . . 35 

Disillusioned ...... 36 

Whose is the Image ..... 37 

Facing the Shadows ..... 38 

A New Adventure ..... 41 

Completion ...... 42 

Suggested by a Typewriter ... 43 


5 






What of the Night ..... 44 

A Thunderstorm ..... 45 

The Daily Task .46 

The Vanished Swing ..... 46 

Giving ....... 47 

Bethesda .47 

Faith (Unstable) .48 

Faith (Sought) .49 

Faith (Individual) . . . . . 51 

Faith (National) .53 

A Little Child Shall Lead Them . . 54 

What Shall I Do .55 

Chide Me Not ...... 56 

Waiting to be Gracious • • • • 57 

Will o* the Wisp . . . . . 59 

Into Thy Hands ..... 60 

Sour Grapes ...... 61 

Hope . . . . . . . 62 

But Yesterday .63 

How the Town Was Built ... 65 

Despised and Rejected .... 68 

The Close of the Year (1918) ... 69 

The Last Act .71 

The Creed of Deed . . . . . 71 

The Way of Life .72 

To Those Who Wait . . . . 73 

The Armistice ...... 76 

Beneficence ...... 76 

Alone ....... 77 

Estranged .78 


6 







Bottle-Fed ...... 

79 

From the Depths .... 

8o 

The Surrender ..... 

. 83 

Wind of the Southland 

84 

House of Quiet ..... 

. 85 

Coming Home ..... 

86 

Christmas Eve, igi8 .... 

. 87 

Suspense .... 

88 

Gone . 

89 

Comfort ...... 

90 

Cast Thy Bread Upon the Waters 

91 


7 






IN HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS 


Men come and go so many various ways, 

Where masses throng on common errands bent, 
The powers that do, by unseen forces sent, 

Into the business of the hast’ning days. 

Such various ways, which multitudes have sought, 
Worn bare by million millions’ passing feet, 
Their scenes bound, by associations meet, 

To lives that echo what the ears have caught, 

Are but the wider ways in which our life 
Touches, or beckons to, our fellow-folks, 
Laughing with them, or wincing ’neath the strokes 
That wound them, as they wrestle in the strife 
Which all must share who, earnest, seek to go 
From low to high, and still to high from low. 

But other quieter ways lie open wide, 

Where pensive minds may wander if they will 
In body, or alone, by vale and hill, 

Through all the glory of the country-side, 
Gathering the sweetness of fair flowers that be 
Or flowers of Eden from their native air, 

Soul reaching soul in a communion rare, 

While hush or storm falls on field and tree. 

Such, too, are ways of men frequented more 
Than eye can always see. Not always there 
The form visible, when glad spirits bear 
Their loving search far toward the further shore, 
Seeking such gems as others there have found, 

As, bravely, they pursued th’ appointed round. 


9 


DISSEVERED FRIENDSHIP 


Again! What art thou who, in human shape, 
Cometh to this quiet cloister when I come, 

Elusive as the wind, persisting still 
To vision, while to touch impalpable? 

Stay! I will no more pursue. But tell me 
What thou art, whence, and wherefore thou art 
here. 

Not man, sayest thou? 

A soul that is lost? 

Not a soul! 

What, then, art thou, living shade? 

A friendship, sayest thou, that a friend hath lost? 
I do not understand. Can this thing be 
That we live in our sev’ral parts and these 
May when they will detach themselves and roam 
As thou; and we continue, minus these, 

So many fractions only of ourselves ? 

Even so, thou sayest. Love never dies, 

Nor friendship, nor one God-like quality 
Of man. They are but severed from the life; 
And so await, separate and alone, 

The coming of a day more greatly blessed. 

How cam’st thou to be lost ? By whom ? And why ? 
You grew! From two strong lives that were as one, 
Who oft within these walls in worship joined, 
Their act a concord and a symphony. 

Both were beautiful, but in an ill time 
One heard, — 


IO 


Speak on — 

The other’s praise so loud 
He thought his own eclipsed, and so a seed 
Of jealousy found place to rest and root, 

And growing, vitiate a virtuous mind. 

How then ? 

Its growth was slow and gradually 
The strength of love’s flood receded. A word 
That lacked in warmth, a puzzling thought to one, 
Coolness perceptible, resentment felt, 

Knowledge of unkind words, more dreadful still 
The bitterness of disappointed pride; 

Then treachery that, eager, sought to slay 
Because it feared its malice was unveiled; 

Saddest, most cruel, most accursed of all, 

’Twas when the lips bore forward in a kiss 
The hidden knife was thrust near where the heart, 
Once loved, beat warm. The treach’rous blow 
was weak, 

Because the hand shook, and the trembling blade 
Glanced on the rib, not harmless, for the blood 
Flowed crimson o’er the tunic’s spotlessness. 

Nor yet was fatal, though the heart it missed 
Chilled, and forthwith failed of half its function. 
Before the knife’s thrust? 

Nay, ’twas but the sting 
Of falseness recognized that froze its warmth. 
Why com’st thou here? 

Once this quiet called them 
When their souls were drawn to God. 


ii 


That they may come again? 


Thinkest thou 


The memories 

Of former joys will draw stronger than horses. 
But memory of broken faith? 

’Twill die, 

Is dead even now.The assuaging years 

Have closed its wounds and made a way o’er which 

Friendship may come again into its own. 


12 


THE LABOR OF LOVE 


Willing are the hands and willing the feet, 

For the labor of love is always sweet. 

Swiftly they scour the woodlands o’er, 

Swiftly, carefully, till they spy 
The lowly pine in shelter dry; 

Swiftly gather its emerald store, 

Swiftly, swiftly, still more and more; 

Swiftly from thence their prize they bore. 

Glad, glad were their hearts, with a festal glee, 

As they dressed the church for the bride to be. 
Happy the man who such bride should win, 

Happy the church she should wed within, 

Happy their friends, and happy their kin, 

And happy their lives should be. 

They scoured the woodlands and scoured the mead. 
To wed with the evergreens flowers they need; 

And the daisy’s white o’er a golden heart 
Was a fitting robe for a bridal part. 

Fast they gather the daisies fair, 

Fast with them to the church repair, 

Fast their baskets they fill again, 

While glad hearts beat a bridal strain. 

Happy the man who such bride should win, 

Happy the church she should wed within, 

Happy their friends and happy their kin, 

And happy their lives should be. 


13 


Then they wreathed the green with the daisies’ 
white, 

Till chancel was studded with specks of light, 

Till the arch that rose the altar o’er 
Was festooned fair with the bridal flower, 

Where the bride herself should take her place, 
And crown the whole with her bridal grace. 

And the song in their hearts was prophecy 
Of this and of other sweet brides to be, — 

Happy the men who such brides should win, 

Happy the church they should wed within, 

Happy their friends, and happy their kin, 

And happy their lives should be. 


14 


DEATH IS YOURS 


O suffering heart, let not thy patience go; 

Thy guerdon even now draws near; 
Death cometh to relieve thee of thy pain 
And give thee triumph on thy bier. 
From thine inheritance the vilest giaours 
May not debar, and death is yours. 


15 


WINNING POWER 


Naked, and wounded, and sore, he lay 
Where the way is wild and lone; 

Priest and Levite, who journeyed that way, 
Looked on him but journeyed on. 

On his helpless form the fierce sun beat, 
From his wounds the blood still ran; 
Half-dead he was when along that road 
There came a Samaritan. 

Son of a mixed and a hated race, 

He bore the heart of a man; 

A man in need! He asked not his creed, 

But swift to his succor ran. 

A traveller’s all, and to give it glad 
To the robbers’ wounded prey; 

Cleansing and strength, a beast to ride on, 
And rest on his health-ward way. 

The power of creed, in a neighbor’s need, 
Was lost from the heart of man, 

When the wounded Jew was found, in woe, 
By the kind Samaritan. 

Angeline Levine, of good French stock, 
Who knelt in the church of Rome, 

And Margaret Scott, of the creed of Knox, 
And the hardy thistle’s home, 

On the city’s street, for untold weeks, 
When they were on worship bent, 

Met as strangers cool and passed by rule, 

And neither thought to relent. 

16 


A whirling car, with a sickening jar, 

Struck a black waif of the street ; 

Who, bruised and bleeding and helpless, fell 
Where to pass these two must meet. 

Their aloofness fled, with its hidden dread, 

As a night-bird flees the sun; 

And the creed of lips was lost right there 
In a good deed to be done. 

A new light fell on the hearts of two 
While their hands were soothing pain; 

And they saw that love which would serve their 
Lord 

Was the faith that He would gain. 


17 


OUT OF DOORS 


There’s a sighing in the trees and a softness in the 
breeze, 

And, overhead, the dull gray clouds portentous are 
of rain; 

The big pines in the dooryard are bending gently 
forward, 

Like dear old ladies who, at tea, each other enter¬ 
tain. 

Oft I wonder if they know, from the winds that 
round them blow, 

Things hid from tiny mortals on this weary earth 
below. 

Or am I only dreaming, when bowing I think seem¬ 
ing 

Of wide and wondrous knowledge I would greatly 
love to know, 

And the sighings that we hear in that upper pine- 
tree sphere 

Are but the various voices of the witless winds that 
blow? 


18 


SO BE IT 


Spirit of hope, thy blessing pour 
On those who wait in weariness; 
Inspire anew the faltering will, 

And bid it — On, achieve success. 

Spirit of power, come to the weak 
In all thine energizing might; 

Raise drooping hands, and feeble knees 
Make strong to follow paths of right. 


19 


NOT THIS TIME 


The morning is cold. A sled would run hard, 
Squeaking its way o’er the crisp, frozen snow. 

It’s too cold for horses. Fifteen below! 

And wind raising Cain in the north barn-yard. 

The stable door’s loose; but how to hold nails 
In weather like this is what I don’t know. 

I wish it was warmer. Hear the wind blow! 
And see the tall saplings whipping like flails! 

There’s harness to mend, but wife would not hear 
If I sought to bring it in where it’s warm. 
Canned heat would be great, you bet, on the farm, 
If it wasn’t, like ’most all we buy, too dear. 

But something like that would suit me today. 

I could warm my little shop in a trice: 

It’s easy to work when everything’s nice, . 
Nothing to trouble or be in the way. 

The split wood’s ’most gone. I ought to saw more, 
But the saw’s got dull and out of set, too. 

It’s too cold to fix it. All I can do 
Is to start for Gossip the grocer’s store. 

Guess I won’t. That old saw’s just got to do. 
I’ve limb-wood enough to last for a while. 

That will warm me. Then a touch of the file 
Will help me to put the big fellows through. 


20 


FRIENDSHIP 


How beautiful is friendship. When in storms of 
life 

Our fragile bark is sadly shaken and near lost, 

How lovely friendship’s form, so firm and staunch 
and true, 

An anchoring hold and succor for the tempest- 
tossed. 

How good to know when, in the rage of slanderous 
tongues, 

The heart is sick, the spirit drooping, pierced 
with pain, 

That friendship trusts its friend, nor will it will¬ 
ing hear 

The words of ill it knows are meant to cast a 
stain. 


21 


THE MAKING OF MEN 


God takes our clay and on His wheel 
He bends and moulds it to design; 

Each touch of beauty He imparts 
Is made to preconceived line. 

Howe’er so hard the wheel may press, 
How sore soe’er the moulding be, 

’Tis love and mercy infinite 
For life infinite shaping me. 

Life’s worth into His crucible 
Life’s Master, for refining, lays; 

With patience and solicitude 
He watches o’er its fiery ways. 

As each impurity ascends, 

He marks the metal’s changing phase; 

Until, the last dark cloud released, 
Reflected, He can see His face. 


22 


EVENING SHADOWS 


Evening shadows, 
Balmy air, 

Fancies flitting 
Everywhere; 

Lost friends coming 
Into view, 
Friendships forming 
Fresh and new. 
What has been here? 

What will be? 
Evening shadows 
Tell to me. 
Whisper softly 
In my ear, 

Is all well with 
Who are dear? 
Are lips moving, 
Sweet and fair, 

As they ask my 
Weal in pray’r? 
Moves a hand, there, 
Unperceived, 

In caresses 
Unreceived? 

Were I near it, 
Would it lie 
On my forehead, 
Lovingly ? 


23 


Are there eyes there 
From the past, 
Ceaseless watching? 

Love may last 
Beyond the day, 
Through the night, 
Till, far away, 

Faith is sight. 
Evening shadows 
You shall cease. 

All is day there, 

All is peace. 


24 


NEITHER POVERTY NOR RICHES 


Spread no darker cloud lest the spirit despair, 

And falter and break in its circumscribed lot; 

Unwilling earth yields men so scanty a share, 

And for each morsel gained some pest must be 
fought. 

Lay no greater burden on shoulders that stoop 
And backs that are aching from constant duress; 

Nor add one more furrow to wrinkles that troop 
On cheek and on forehead in care’s sad caress. 

Let never the hunger that threatens arrive, 

Nor perishing cold our frail garments pierce 
through: 

The hungry may steal, and the perishing strive 
For warmth that abundance may flaunt in their 
view. 

Not ours be the wealth of grand tapestried halls, 
Nor the menial hosts that a palace adorn. 

Wealth exudes the poison by which virtue falls; 
Pride raises its forehead before God in scorn. 

Ours be the blessing of enough, and not less 

Nor more, save as stewards we suffering erase; 

Let ours be the home where each childhood’s success 
Grows up round a mother whose household’s her 
praise. 


25 


THE SEEKER 


“Rides no one with thee, weary traveller?” 
“None; I ride alone.” 

“Far hast thou journeyed, 

For thy steed is spent; what mission urges on?” 

“I seek a land wherein to rest, where hands 
That willing work may work all unopprest; 

Where men to other men are kind, and none 
His brother seeks to grind, to give for bread 
A stone.” 

“Far hast thou sought, but farther still 
Thy quest shall lead thee on. There is no land 
Such as you seek, nor ever has been known. 

Rest here thy self and weary steed, and share 
Such as we have.” 

“Nay, not yet may I rest; 

Though far the goal I seek, it must be won.” 

“Rest thee here; though thy heart be stout, the years 
Sit heavily upon thee. Rest awhile, 

If but to gather strength to journey on.” 

“I may not rest, but journey ever on.” 

“Thou seekest but the phantom of a dream. 

Man never knew the land or state you seek; 

They were not, are not, and can scarcely seem 
To be. ’Tis not in mankind to be kind 
To man beyond a measure circumscribed 
By self-advantage. The past gives no sign 
Of such a dream fulfilled. Why not resign 
Thyself to what is today, — the essence 


26 


And the garnered beauty of the ages?” 

“This quest must not cease. From far down the past 
I come, and on through future years I go, 

Much buffeted, but unswerving. Sad years 
Yet may gather into periods long, 

Ere o’er their spasms quietness steals and born 
From out their suffering there appear the things 
I seek, man’s brotherhood, unselfish joy 
That sings of service not of gain. Till then 
I journey on.” 


27 


RAIN IN SUGAR-TIME 


We’ve had a great run — the best in some years, 
Though now clouds darken the bright morning 
sky; 

Light winds stir softly the boughs of the trees 
With a sound like a sad, low, wailing cry. 

The crows fly low. Soon a cold rain will fall, 
And the buckets be rily, one and all. 

There’s sap for good two days’ boiling ahead, 

But what’s in the buckets must come right in; 
We want all there is, but we want it clean 
And safe in the tubs ere the rains begin. 

Then hitch up Jerry and Jim to the sled 
And hustle it briskly into the shed. 

With buckets turned up we heed not the rain; 

We can laugh at the storm raging without; 

In comfort we watch the arch-fire’s red flame, 

And see its rich products gather about. 

’Tis a gladsome work, for each golden cake 
Will joy to some child of sugar-land take. 


28 


FALLING DIAMONDS 


Its warming rays the morning sun 
Lends to the maple trees; 

Their wealth, by chilly night bound fast, 
In graciousness it frees. 

Their silver nectar starts once more 
Its trickling drops to spill, 

Glad gifts from out their treasury 
To wait their captor’s will. 

As from its guide each drop sets forth 
In sudden, sharp descent, 

It gleams a diamond — brilliant thing 
One moment ere is spent 
The transient glory. In that flash 
Is all of life it knows 
As individual, separate, — 

The rest with myriad others flows. 

But that brief, momentary light, 

Caught from the sunshine’s gleam, 
Made diamonds of each single drop 
In all that humble stream. 


29 


TO URR: A SONG THAT WAS SOUGHT 


O Urr! And must a lover beg 
A lover’s song for thee, 

Whose minstrel waters music make 
From source unto the sea? 

But who sufficingly can sing 

Whom three-score years prevent? 

A gleam of life at dawning born 
To pass with night’s descent. 

For thou from morning mists of time 
Unceasingly hast sung; 

While o’er milleniums of years 
The requiem has rung. 

When summer skies were calm and blue, 
Gentle and sweet thy strain; 

In majesty thy thunder rolled 
When freshets tore amain. 

What hand can strike so sweet a chord ? 
What voice be meet to praise 

Thy music through the changing years— 
To now, from ancient days? 

Yet lovers love thee, — otherwise 
Than for thy many years: 

Thy voice has soothed the troubled heart 
And quieted its fears. 


30 


And often has thy lap, lap, lap, 

Over thy pebbled fords 

Sung lullaby to stormy thoughts 
And words that pierced like swords. 

And, Oh! The dreams that have been dreamt 
When, seated by thy stream, 

The enchantment of thy waters 
Set fancy’s fires agleam, 

When bright against the great unseen 
Grew scenes of far away, 

And wondrous things that never were, 

Save in the unknown day. 

Still, tenderly, these linger on, 

Too precious far to perish, 

Sweet memories hid in loving hearts — 
Visions fond to cherish. 

And while thy music holds its sway 
(Ever and for ever), 

Thy power o’er hearts of changing men 
Shall fail? No! Oh, never! 

But aiding in thy power to hold 
Thy willing captives, still, 

Are overhanging arch of green, 

And mead, and near-by hill, 

The otter’s sudden eerie plump, 

The moorhen’s silent track, 


31 


The brood she hides so cleverly 
Where roots are thick and black, 

The song that fills the upper space 
Thy waters cannot reach, 

Where lark and mavis wake the skies 
With notes like angels’ speech. 

These all are thine, — a part of thee 
In memory’s pictured view,— 

And nature each hath bound to each 
By ties both old and new. 

And other things are thine as well 
By ties that do not break, — 

The record of the long-past years, 

The deeds that kingdoms make, 

The love that sweetened humble lives 
That passed thy waters near, 

And left nought but the memory 
Of common hope and fear. 

And thine, too, are that other folk 
Of fin and gleaming scale, 

To wile whom from thy sheltering deep 
The man-folk would prevail. 

Oft vain the lure, oft vain the wait 
In hope and patience long; 

But he who meets the laughing jest 
Has first enjoyed thy song. 


32 


What confidences are exchanged, 

Few of the jesters know; 

Nor how the voice thy lovers hear 
Can soothe or set aglow. 

How can they know the angler’s joy 
When in his creel is laid 

A speckled beauty, for which prize 
Great store of wit he paid? 

Or how that greater joy that comes 
When memory pictures ’new 

The circumstances of a strife 
That only you two knew? 

Again he treads thy grassy bank 
Beneath the arching green; 

Again he holds the doubling rod 
Against the rushing stream; 

Again he sees the side shine red, 

Again the fouling line; 

Again he feels the failing hope 
Betokened by that sign; 

Again that short sharp sigh that tells 
The parting of the cast; 

Again the swift and rueful look, 

The glimpse that was the last. 

And then the angler’s short-lived grief — 
For the fish he didn’t get 


33 


In his forever now, held fast 
In memory’s landing net. 

And many, many are the ties 
Thy lovers bind to thee, 

Stored in that wondrous treasure-vault, 
The hall of memory. 

But roll thou on thy singing way 
From source unto the main, 

And let thy lovers fondly hope 
To see thy streams again. 


34 


A LOST HOSTESS 


Somewhere, perhaps, that hand still spreads 
God’s gifts of food and cheer; 
Somewhere, perhaps, her guests are glad, 
But ’tis no longer here. 

Somewhere, perhaps, she’s wielding still 
That power to harmonize, 

That, subtly, to each varying mood, 

Apt psychic touch applies, 

From out a multiminded throng, 

By kindly soothing grace, 

To bring a gladsome unity, 

A smile on every face. 

Sometime, somewhere, God only knows, 

(It lies in His behest) 

She may again my hostess be, 

And I her willing guest. 


35 


DISILLUSIONED 


So fare we forth. What holds the world of new 
Within its misty future’s chambers hid, 

For us who to adventure now are bid 
By stern necessity’s unsparing crew? 

We dreamed, — O foolish tantalizing view — 

All fell obstructions from our course had slid, 
And on fair streets with easy steps we did 
Our restful way in comfort staid pursue. 

But o’er our dream there hung the cleaving steel 
That ’twixt hope and fulfillment severance made, 
A tyrant’s power, in crushing, hateful raid, 
Grinding the poor and burdened ’neath its heel. 
Not ours must ought of beauty be or joy 
That pride-borne tyrant can in hate destroy. 


36 


WHOSE IS THE IMAGE? 


Who, who is this I dimly see 
In waking vision frequently? 

Environed now in great success, 

With hands that open but to bless; 

And now, again, in craven mood, 
Bewailing, seeking, unfound good; 

Now rapt in joy, of friendship born, 

That lights his countenance as the morn; 
Now drooping, worn, in raiment rude, 
The prey of friendless solitude; 

Now begging for release from life, 

Its burdened way, its selfish strife; 
Rallied, anon, from dust and tears, 

By spirit-touch dispersing fears; 

That poise, those hands, I surely know; 
Whose is the image varying so? 


37 


FACING THE SHADOWS 


There’s fog on the sea tonight, thick fog. 

How hard will it be for the men who sweep! 
And Jamie, my strength, is somewhere with them, 
Clearing the course of the ships through the deep. 
No whimper nor flinch with his mates or him, 
Though greater the danger when light is dim; 
But we women wait with a deeper fear 
When the fog comes down on the way they clear; 
And it hurts to feel that one is so weak: 

But be still, my heart, or be brave to speak. 

The stockings must grow and the shirts be wove, 
Though frail be the hands that follow the wires; 
The ships must come back and the ships must rove, 
(The seamen’s courage our labor inspires) ; 

And to keep them safe from the fiendish Hun, 

The sweepers must sweep spite of fog or gun; 

But we women know what a price is paid 
To sweep up the mines that the fiends have laid. 
But our lads are brave, and so we must be, 

For the love of the lads who sweep the sea. 

I’m weary, too, since our John went across 
Wi’ the Lothian lads to the fight in France. 

Oh! I think that for gude news o’ the lad 

These rickety legs would grow strong and dance. 
He was such a joy to Jamie and me, 

As kind to us baith as a son could be. 


38 


So like Jamie, too, in his manly ways, 

When we were young in our courting days. 

But the Prussian beast must be caged with bars; 
Till then our brave young lads will to the wars. 

But Jeannie, (did a better lass e’er grace 

Such humble hame as working folks can keep?) 
Jeannie is with me, be it storm or still, 

Though long her walk she’s here at night to sleep 
And help me, hand and foot, baith night and morn, 
A mither’s lass if ever such was born. 

Maybe there’s brawer lasses. Who will tell? 
Jeannie is braw enough. God guard her well. 

’Tis nearly seven; she will soon be here 
To make the house glad wi’ her song and cheer. 

I see her coming past the big oak tree, 

But some one’s wi’ her! Oh! Be still, my heart! 
Foolish! ’Tis what should be and what will be. 

God grant her happy mating when we part! 
Was I deceived? She comes, and quite alone. 

Poor jealous I! So ready to make moan! 

She must not know. Jeannie, lass, what kept you? 
Did they not give you all that was your due? 

Is there good news from the French front to-day? 
Eat, lass, then read me what the papers say. 

Are you not hungry after that long walk ? 

Lassie, you must eat and keep your strength up. 
You cannot work and walk so far on air; 

Try some of your own-made mushroom ketchup. 


39 


Jeannie, what is the matter wi’ you, lass? 
Something uncommon sure has come to pass, 

You smile so wise-like. What is pleasing you? 
And you have set an extra service, too! 

Whose hands are these? My boy, my boy! I know 
Now, Jeannie, lass, why you were smiling so. 


40 


A NEW ADVENTURE 


A new adventure lies before. Fare on, 

Though strange the unknown ways of this last 
quest. 

Let not its loneliness thy soul infest 
With fears, nor thy present worthy guerdon 
Hide from thy view. As erstwhile thou hast gone 
To serve, knowing thyself a passing guest 
Of all there is, so still be in thy zest 
Of service a servant of all. Alone 

Pass thou on bravely, not as weary crone 

With wringing hands and accents full of woe, 
But head erect, and daring all to know, 

Be it the best or worst, and make no moan 
When it is worst, though glad to raise a cheer 
When good is with thee or is drawing near. 


41 


COMPLETION 


The task I know as mine is nearly done, 

The goal I’ve striven for is very near; 

The exaltation lessens, and the fear 
Of aimless loneliness, when that is won, 

Falls on me like a pall. They who have run 
With me in some or all my various ways 
Have closed their course, and o’er them others 
raise 

Memorials of their sojourn ’neath the sun. 

Companionless, I look with longing eyes 

Toward the mists in which they sank from view; 
Heart-hungry, with them once more to renew 
The strife against the things we did despise, 

The gladness of achievement, the surprise 
Of greater deeds than we dared hope to do. 


42 


SUGGESTED BY A TYPEWRITER 


Through years of which the number is not known, 
Man marked his thoughts with various devices, 
Each one best by int’rested advices, 

Until, through labor hard, to wisdom grown, 

He laid aside stylus and chiselled stone, 

Painting so bright it yet his heart entices, 

The stamping on bricks — he all revises 
Till defter manner makes his writing shown. 

No longer now a weary workman’s groan 
Dishonors the craft his heart despises; 

But help from invention’s gift arises, 

Lifting at once the burden and the moan, 

While airy iron fingers, thickly set, 

Make him his former tedious toil forget. 


43 


WHAT OF THE NIGHT 


Brother, what of the night? 

All still is dark; 
Untruth and envy, juggling doubtful words, 

Make awful discords ’mong the race of men. 

Sons spurn the wisdom of their sires and curse 
The good things that they have, and all the means 
By which, from bonds that held the flesh enchained, 
They have been freed, with mad steps hastening 
To stupefy the mind chains cannot bind. 

What of the night? 

Deep is the darkness still. 

The waves of wrangling roll with clamor loud 
Upon a slothful people in whose mind 
Is coma. They would not think; now the waves 
Sweep on their wide embrace and bear them down 
To what they cannot know. 

What of the night? 

The night is passing ill. 

Day should be here, but all is darkness yet; 

Less dark, but darkness still, nor night, nor day; 
Noisy confusion reigns, and great babbling 
Fills all the unstopped avenues of sound. 

Is there no light? No truth? 

Faint shafts of light 

Are here and there, as truth essays her speech, 

But these, as distant lightning when ’tis weak, 

Are of the darkness quickly overborne. 


44 


Brother, see’st thou no more than these? 

I see 

Through the wide darkness flames arise. A fire 
Is set, a purging fire that tries the hearts. 
Behind it are sad faces seeking truth. 


A THUNDERSTORM 

Inky black grew the sky till day seemed to hover 
As if caressing the nightfall, still far away; 

Hushed was the hot air, while field creatures sought 
cover, 

Ere the loud thunder crashed with the bright 
lightning’s play. 

Tempestuous defiance it hurled on the field, 

As a super-power calling inferiors to yield. 

Then its anger subsided and fountains of tears 

Flowed forth in rich blessing where its coming 
spread fears. 


45 


THE DAILY TASK 


Up, up, to higher, higher heights still rise: 

The resurrection is thy daily task 
That, from the baseness and the rags that mask, 
Raiseth th’ indwelling spirit to the skies. 


THE VANISHED SWING 

The pole still hangs high overhead 
On which once was a swing; 

Yearning, it seems, in its silent way, 
Now that the swing’s been taken away, 
For the laughter of a girl at play, 

And songs she used to .sing; 

And both pole and pines alike are dead 
Since the music of her singing fled. 


46 


GIVING 


Give what thou hast. The light that is in thee 
Will surely shine, disclosing worth and weal, 
If thou but break the circumscribing shard 
And casting it away thy light reveal. 


BETHESDA 

We sit by the pool Bethesda, 

But our eyes are too dim to see, 

When the angel stirs the waters 
Of our life’s opportunity. 

But who has a seeing brother, 

Or who even a seeing friend, 

Is thrust in the moving waters 

Whose course toward affluence tend. 

We sit by the pool Bethesda, 

While the world goes swiftly round, 
Too weak to stir, when waters move, 

From our place on the sick man’s ground. 
But here a man, by a brother, 

And here a husband, by a wife, 

Are thrust in the moving waters 
And enter the kingdom of life. 


47 


FAITH (UNSTABLE) 


High rose the waves. The wind against their course 
In violence blew, and overbore their skill; 

The wearied rowers lost their wonted force, 

And aching arms relaxed the zealous will. 

Among the curling billows’ crested spray 
A shadowy form issued into sight; 

Fear entered hearts that never feared a fray. 

“A spirit comes,” they cried in their affright. 

Forthwith the spirit spoke, “Be of good cheer; 

Your Master, I, who cometh thus to you.” 

And he, the foremost ever, losing fear — 

“Bid me to walk upon the waters, too.” 

His Master bade him and with joy he trod, 

Brave in his love and faith, upon the sea, 

Till, for a moment, faith lost hold on God 

And nature triumphed. His cry, “Lord save me,” 

Brought the almighty outstretched arm to aid, 

And love and power both were used to plead 
Against such doubt that such a price had paid 
When steadfast faith had won a glorious meed. 


48 


FAITH (SOUGHT) 


O power that mortal may acquire! 

Lord, bid it dwell with me, 
Unconquerable in its might 
Because it is of Thee. 

For those, my brethren, who, in pain, 
Drag on in life’s highway, 

Whose joys, by sorrows circumscribed, 
Die ere they see bright day, 

Whose bodies bend beneath the load 
Of the imposing years, 

Whose spirits, disappointment-scarred, 
Are haunts of withering fears, — 

For those, O grant me faultless faith, 
Unshaken and serene, 

That I may seek and gain for them 
Their faith that might have been, 

That they to Thee their burdens take, 
There, at Thy bidding, lay 
Each various ache and wretchedness, 
And bear a song away 

For those who, eager, press to serve 
In strong youth’s bright array, 
That consecrated be their powers 
To righteousness alway, 


49 


That unto them be freely given 
The vision soaring far, 

That nought of evil or of earth 
Have power that view to mar, 

But by its grandeur carried on 
And by its spirit led, 

One song of praise their life becomes 
Unto the Lamb who bled. 

For those, O Father, give the faith 
To hold their purpose high, 

And bear them, stainless through the strife, 
To mansions in the sky. 


50 


FAITH (INDIVIDUAL) 


Wearied with strife the Master came 
Where Syrian powers the homage claim. 

Ere He could find the rest He sought, 

A mother’s prayer to Him brought 

The sorrow of a daughter dear, 

By demon bound in pain and fear. 

“Have mercy on me, Lord,” she cried, 
“Thou Son of David! Health provide.” 

No answer gave He. On his way 
He went, while she ceased not to pray. 

“Have mercy, mercy, Lord!” Her pain 
Raised oft anew the same refrain. 

“Bid her begone.” Disciples spoke. 

Their words fell on her like a stroke. 

She went not. With persistent will 
She pled for mercy, — mercy still. 

“An alien, thou,” He said. “At most, 

My mission is to Israel lost.” 

In worship she before Him falls. 

“Lord help me! Hear! A mother calls.” 

“The bread I to our children take 
For dogs I cannot fitly break.” 


5i 


“Truth, Lord. But even dogs may eat 
The crumbs that fall by children’s feet. 

“Have mercy, Lord. These morsels give, 
And bid my tortured daughter live.” 

Heroic faith no scorn could daunt! 

Raise now on high thy joyful chant. 

Thy daughter freed from demon power 
Becomes thy faith’s attesting dower: 

Thy mother-love has won for thee 
The praise of love eternally. 


52 


FAITH (NATIONAL) 


Dense, dense the storm-clouds that so long maintain 
Their sway upon the sodden grievous road, 
Where patient people bear their weary load, 
Longing for rest, and yet from rest refrain 
Until their march is o’er; and from the woe 
And night, the labor and the constant pain, 
They shall come forth to normal life again, 

And light’s glad portals in the distance show. 

On toward that long-expected gleam they press, 
Brave and unyielding ’neath their burden’s sway: 
Light must grow brighter further on the way, 
And easier the path, less the distress. 

Still they advance, nor will they be gainsaid: 
Morn shall appear most gloriously arrayed. 


53 


A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM 


A child was He of lowliest birth, 

Whom the Father sent here to show 
Himself to the sad of a weary earth, 

To win them back to a helpful mirth, 

To greater hope from its scant and dearth, 
From the selfish life to the salve of woe 
And joy that willing servants know. 

From the Fathers home the holy train 
Announced the Savior’s humble birth, 

In glad song that told of heavenly lays, 

Of happy mortals and cheerful days, 

Of a life grown richer in the rays, 

Love, service, peace, and kindliest praise, 
From the Sun of Righteousness. 

The years roll on their weary ways, 

Still many are the hearts that grieve; 

Not yet do all men own the sway, 

Not yet do all men seek the way, 

For lust deceiveth cunningly; 

But they who on the Child believe 
Shall great and greater love achieve. 

For hearts that follow the leading Child 
Fall never to deepest despair ; 

No darkest moment’s without light, 

No sorrow overpowering quite; 

Always before is the vision fair, 

Always the Child is leading there, 

And ever toward Love that’s bright. 


54 


WHAT SHALL I DO 


Master, how many thus have asked of Thee 
That they might know their duty definitely? 

If after many ages gone, ask Thee anew, — 

What shall I do? What shall I do? 

When at the parting of life’s several ways I stand 
And know not how to choose aright, take Thou my 
hand. 

Thine be the choice, and Thou the guide unto thy 
land. 

When, in the daily walk, each day presents its choice, 
Each opening calling with its own insistent voice, 
Guide Thou my steps that in the end I shall rejoice. 

Not mine the choice, O Master, lest, too blind to see, 
I fall in slippery ways. Thine, thine the choice 
shall be: 

I only ask from Thee that I may worthy be. 

Each moment guide me. Grant me faith in Thee to 
know 

That all the steps I take are ordered by Thee, so 
That, through them all, I nearer still to Thee shall 
grow. 

Hear, once again, the prayer, so old, yet ever new: 
Master, what shall I do? What shall I do? 


55 


CHIDE ME NOT 


Chide me not, O gentle Savior, 
Weak and fickle though I be, 

Faithless oft, still feebly clinging 
Unto Thee. 

Leave me not, O gracious Savior, 
At times when my courage fails, 

When the storm-cloud dismays me 
And prevails. 

Raise me then, O mighty Savior, 

Safe from the perilous abyss; 

Meet the penitent, returning, 

With thy kiss. 

Make me yet, O patient Savior, 
Faithful, brave, whate’er betide, 

One among thy trusted servants, 

At thy side. 

Keep me there, O loving Savior, 
Serving in true humility, 

From all fear and weakness severed, 
And set free. 


56 


WAITING TO BE GRACIOUS 


Mother was quiet as she knitted. 

Those lips so much given to song 
Were set close in firm decision: 

You knew there was something wrong. 

Oftentimes her eyes would wander 
From her knitting to the wall, 

Where, listlessly, a little boy 
Played alone with bat and ball. 

Sad longing filled those loving eyes 
For the lad she had ostracised, 

But the firm mouth never softened, 
Though she, too, was penalized. 

But the bat and ball lost favor, 

And the lad’s discomfort grew; 

He sat for a time, irresolute, 

Then he dropped a tear or two. 

A moment more, and then a sob 
That little breast was shaking, 

Its pain and grief could not be checked, 
The heart within was breaking. 

The mother’s eye had seen his plight; 

His sorrow had reached her heart; 

The yearning eyes were filled with tears: 
How long could they keep apart? 


57 


Up rose the lad. His tear-wet cheeks 
His little sleeve held hidden; 

Sad and ashamed, he stumbled ’cross 
To kneel down there unbidden. 

Something, perhaps, he would have said, 
But mother’s lips had found him; 

And mother’s arms, in loving clasp, 

Were gathered tightly round him. 


58 


WILL O’ THE WISP 


It fared before him in youth’s purple days so glad, 

A speck that gleamed far, far ahead, yet seemed 
to say: 

I am the promise and the door of glorious day; 

By him who enters can all his desires be had. 

He dreamed of riches and requited love beside, 

And bravely, hopefully, he followed where they 
led; 

Riches he won, but after many years had sped; 

A woman, too, who in his prime became his bride. 

Still faint and far before that pregnant promise 
gleamed, 

Suggesting yet, with strange enchantment in its 
lure, 

That for the heart insatiate there was still a cure, 

Though wealth and love of woman were not what 
they seemed. 

Always the longing, as of emptiness unfilled, 

Though what he really wished he now could 
scarcely tell; 

Always the light that beckoned, Come, all will be 
well; 

They only lose who, quitting, let their hope be 
killed. 

He followed till declining strength had told its tale, 

And vanity its sting had planted in his mind. 


59 


Was human effort ever at a loss to bind 
Achievement to the thing it promised without fail? 

The pulses slowed; but ever still, like floating star, 
He saw a light that drew him with its haunting 
glow 

To promises of youth renewed, and laughter’s 
flow, 

Until a bowl was broken and he felt the jar. 


INTO THY HANDS 

Into Thy hands, — The slumber-land is calling; 

Mine eyes are heavy, keep Thou me; 

Into Thy hands, — O let no dread of falling 
Despoil sweet slumber’s ministry. 

Into Thy hands, — Forgive the unforgiven; 

Inspire the thought that pleases Thee; 

Into Thy hands, — By Thine own mercy shriven, 
To Thee my weary soul would flee. 

I loved the day, — In its beauty and gladness, 

My senses unfettered I fondly did steep; 

Now grant me, in darkness, that still free from 
sadness 

I trust Thee unwavering, unconscious in sleep. 


6o 


SOUR GRAPES 


Yours are the sadnesses of hopes that sink 
Dismayed before the interposing veil; 

Yours, too, the bitterness of those who wail, 
Knowing ’tis but their own of which they drink. 
Ye fear the future, that to you is dark, 

In which may perish life’s low, flickering light; 
Remorse clings to thee, with its sting and blight: 
Shall ever morn a brighter moment mark ? 

Of years of waste but ashes gray remain, 

And memories sad of misspent yesterdays; 

The word you speak your inward wound betrays, 
Exclaiming as you seek escape from pain: 

How vain are all things! How that truth is not! 
Nor hath good been, nor shall be in man’s lot! 


61 


HOPE 


Lift up your eyes unto the hills above, 

By everflowing springs with verdure spread; 

The noble and the brave their grasses tread 
And feast beneath a banner that is love. 

The fairness of the Lily there is seen, 

And there the grace of Sharon’s lovely Rose; 
Its tender note the gentle dove bestows, 

While Judah’s Lion guards the peaceful scene. 

No more their songs are drowned by cruel war, 
No more the wails of mourners reach the ear; 
Broken forever are the bow and spear, 

And perfect faith drives haunting fears afar. 
Their Prince is with them; at his feet they pour 
Their grateful worship hence forevermore. 


62 


BUT YESTERDAY 


Dark, dark are the skies with the dismal cloud 
That shuts out the sun’s fair gleam; 

And lonesome and sad are the lanes leaf-strewn, 
As trees shed their yellow stream. 

But yesterday, but yesterday, 

These woods were laughing and bright and gay 
With call of bird and squirrel at play. 

But yesterday! 

Was it but yesterday? 

Bright, bright was the view his heart led him to, 
Ere youth was a by-gone time; 

And fair was the road his light footsteps trod, 

And merrily bells did chime. 

But yesterday, but yesterday, 

Ere the skies grew dark and the hills grew gray, 
And mourners passed sadly on their way. 

But yesterday! 

Was it but yesterday? 

Red, red were the buds when the South wind said, 
Come, open your lips and kiss; 

For the mantle of love in joy is spread, 

Its comfort you must not miss. 

But yesterday, but yesterday! 

Now the winds bite keen and the dead leaves fall, 
And they spread themselves in summer’s pall 
Since yesterday. 

Was it but yesterday? 

63 


High, high in purpose went youth bravely on, 
Singing a song by the way, 

Till the toil and heat of the weary road 
Choked the words the lips would say. 

But yesterday, but yesterday! 
Now many a hope is fallen and dead, 

And small the achievement in their stead, 
Since yesterday. 

Was it but yesterday? 


64 


HOW THE TOWN WAS BUILT 


Away on the sandy prairie, in the heart of the Mid¬ 
dle West, 

A tiny hamlet of feeble folks were seized with a 
great unrest; 

For of the barren rocks their fathers cursed, and 
turned from in scorn, 

With the ring of steel and the rush of men a great 
new hope was born. 

Then, as they measured the possible chance, great 
dreams their vision filled: 

With one accord, in hope’s new-found voice, they 
said, Let us rise and build. 

Then they builded — out and further — till woods 
and fields alike were street, 

With growing force endeavoring to keep pace with 
incoming feet; 

For the once-scorned rocks now gathered, from 
many widely scattered lands, 

Those wandering men who, unceasing, seek the 
stone-work with eager hands. 

They came from far frozen Finland, from Norse 
lands, and from Britain’s shore, 

Following hopes of perfect homes, or the lure of the 
golden ore. 


65 


With them in that modern Babel was joined a 
greatly varied crew 

Of sunny Italy’s swarthy race, of German, Russian, 
Pole, and Jew. 

And, truly, ’twas a marvelous thing how that 
strange make-up contrived 

To work together with one will until such good re¬ 
sults arrived. 

If Stanilowski’s Polish tongue no single English 
word could name, 

He stood by his English neighbor, and they both 
drove nails just the same. 

They builded high on the prairie and they builded 
low in the swamp; 

They heeded not the dry sand-blast nor the ills that 
follow the damp; 

All obstacles were swept away in that eager per¬ 
sistent rush; 

And this day the hoe was busy where only yesterday 
was brush. 

The quail came peeking shyly where last year she 
hid her little nest; 

And scolded sadly when she found a babe upon its 
mother’s breast. 

’Tis strange; but Griffith Griffiths, Griffith’s son, 
and Swan the son of Swan 

Have built upon adjoining lots in disregard of race 
and clan. 


66 


Also, Sam Gray and Edith Jones agreed two races 
should unite; 

And others doing as they did declared their plan was 
wholly right. 

Now these young folks, all, are building homes for 
that strong race that shall be, 

When, out of many, one is wrought in this great 
mill of destiny. 


67 


DESPISED AND REJECTED 


By ancient paths, in the long ago, 

They came and went as the burdened go; 
They paused to teach the race that was then 
To shun the false and the fear of men; 

To buy the truth and to hold it fast 
Wherever their lot in life was cast. 

These sages the world of now reveres, 
Though then their life was in pain and tears. 

And once there came, in the fullest time, 

A Life, than all others more sublime; 

A Voice that, amid the world’s deep roar, 
Streams of tenderness ever did pour; 

And ever His touch to life did raise 
The sad who lay in sorrow’s lone ways; 

Yet shame and a cross on him were laid 
When by a false bosom friend betrayed. 

And others, who in His steps have trod 
And borne their witness that He was God, 
Have come where the former light was dim, 
And have bid men look again to Him; 

But distorted faith would not admit 
That ought outside of itself was fit 
To help men rise, so it turned aside 
To sneer and scoff at the brave who tried. 


68 


THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR (1918) 


The year is nearly ended, 
Another year is near; 

Pause now upon the threshold, 
In hope, and faith, and fear. 

Hope’s vision bids us onward, 
Beneath its cheering ray, 

To days that ever brighten 
Toward the perfect day. 

Faith bids us trust the future 
In Hands that wisely guide, 

And Love that for its children 
Doth ever well provide. 

Fear casts its doubting mantle 
On faith and vision fair; 

And shows us how unable 
We are new life to dare, 

How frail our powers to battle 
With the increasing pain, 

How costly every effort, 

How trifling every gain. 

But here we may not linger, 
For onward comes the year; 

And we must make the journey 
In hope, and faith, and fear. 


69 


But let us pause in prayer, 

Ere we its threshold cross, 
And ask to leave behind us 
All life that’s only dross; 

To fear no evil ever, 

Howe’er robust it be, 

But brightened by hope’s vision 
Face toward eternity. 

Be our years few or many, 

In faith to seek our goal, 
Until we cross the river 
Where silent shadows roll; 

Until in glorious sunlight 
On Zion’s peaceful shore, 

We find th’ appointed mansions 
With Love for evermore. 


70 


THE LAST ACT 


Across the stage of village life he passed, 

Bearing the wage his skill and strength had won, 

Straight to the mart of bottled woe and shame, 
And drank and bought till what he bore was done. 

Then, to the street, not knowing where he turned, 
Half-seeing and half-conscious staggered on; 

Now clutching at the trees, now creeping past, 

Now stumbling o’er some tiny rise or stone. 

He reached the rail and blundered down its course 
While deeper grew the stupor of his brain; 

He tripped and fell, unheeding and unseen, 

Across the path of the incoming train. 

The gleaming light awoke no sense of fear, 

No meaning had the engine’s warning bell; 

One moment thus, — the next in quivering shreds — 
And so, amid the noise, the curtain fell. 


THE CREED OF DEED 

An active love and a lover’s meed, 

And the longest life is sped ; 

But acts of spite, with concentric night, 
Make each day of life a dread. 

Love that gives itself in giving, 

Is love by Christ’s spirit led. 


71 


THE WAY OF LIFE 


This morning there left, from the depot, for the 
gateway of the West, 

Two brave young folks, whose riches were largely 
the hopes that blest; 

And a little party of four or five stood there to say 
good-bye, 

Trying their best to look cheerful though more in¬ 
clined to sigh. 

Three fond sisters and a younger brother it seemed 
to me they were, 

For all had similar features and all the same fair 
hair. 

And I think the fifth was the mother of the boy 
who went away, 

For her face was marked with anguish like those, 
who, fearing, pray. 

When the heavy wheels began to turn at the im¬ 
pulse of the steam 

Her features firmer still were set; I thought that 
she would scream. 

But as she waved her last farewell with shaky, hes¬ 
itating hand, 

A great sob shook her and her tears fell fast upon 
the sand. 

Then plain on her relaxing countenance, wet with 
the falling tears, 

I read the sadness of a heart fearful for coming 
years. 


72 


TO THOSE WHO WAIT 


Fathers and mothers, who have sons that go 
In martial rank to meet with freedom’s foe, 

And in impatience wait, 

What comfort is there in the vacant home, 

While forth the armies of our bravest roam 
Beyond the home-land’s gate? 

Across the seas the fields with blood are red, 
Where other fathers’ bravest sons lie dead 
That freedom yet may stand; 

That man, choosing his faith and country still, 
May look o’er level plain to distant hill, 

And say “Beloved land.” 

No iron hand is on him laid to cross 
Nature’s best impulse with pride’s vilest dross, 
And make him evil’s slave; 

His strength to train, by every art that’s known, 
To steal his brother’s birthright and his own, 
When bidden by a knave. 

But sheltered ’neath the roof he calls his own, 
Where tyrant ne’er his brazen face has shown 
To cajole or to lie, 

His children, he in honor’s path may lead, 

Body and soul with honest food may feed, 
Fearless of knavish spy. 

Now they have gone, those bravest lads, to face 
The devastating plague, manhood’s disgrace, 


73 


The beast in human form. 

Why does the weary hand, unwitting, clench, 

The swelling heart feel th’ unbidden wrench, 
Foresensing war’s red storm? 

Ah! These the hands that may not give nor take 
The blows of war, when in fierce struggle break 
The surging human waves, 

When, charging through the hail of lead and fire, 
Free men oppose the stroke of falsehood’s ire, 

To crush the demon’s slaves. 

These are the hands whose patient drill must be 
On waiting land or labor of the sea, 

With plough or hoe or net; 

As useful, helpful, and, maybe, as brave, 

As hands that serve on land, or on the wave, 

With gun and bayonet. 

And these the hearts that must suspense endure 
Till victory shall freedom’s cause assure, 

And bid red ruin cease; 

Not hopeless, for the Eastern sky doth glow 
With greater brightness than our eyes can know, 
Earnest of earth’s release. 

Jerusalem, downtrodden through long years, 
Greatest in grief, a very fount of tears, 

At last has found relief; 

From untold cruel barbarism freed, 

Shall she her royal noble self succeed, 

Centre of earth’s belief. 


74 


But still the heart must bear, it must not break, 
While manhood’s noblest treasures are at stake 
In battle’s fire and smoke, 

While all true men enleagued in armies stand 
For right and freedom in each saddened land, 
Till evil’s power be broke. 

Till, like the brightness of the risen sun, 

Out of the welter, when the fight is won, 

There cometh righteousness; 

To men again the sense of brotherhood, 

While evil, broken, undisguised, and nude, 
Receiveth just duress. 

Till, in a greater glory than has been 
On earth, new-born, this chastened earth is seen, 
To nobler, brighter life; 

When more for others men themselves shall give, 
For what is high and noble more shall live, 

For these alone shall strive. 


75 


THE ARMISTICE 


The grim riot ceases. Again ’tis still; 

So still, the ear may hear sweet nature’s sounds, 
As armies moving from embattled grounds 
Make room for such as come their place to fill, 
Those in retreat, advancing these, until 

The line set by the conqueror shall be gained, 
And “No Man’s Land” of peace, by both or¬ 
dained, 

Be constituted by the common will. 

There, resting on their arms, they patient wait 
The scratching of the pen that signs the peace, 
The closing of the breach, dark war’s decease, 
Dawning of brighter, better days, the gate 
Through which shall enter, in its noble cause, 
High-purposed union bearing righteous laws. 


BENEFICENCE 

’Twas but a smile with a word of greeting, 

A common every-day kind of meeting; 

But the heart that spoke through those smiling lips 
Shed a grace that time has failed to eclipse; 

And the smile is a treasure still as dear 
As it was in that far-off yesteryear. 


76 


ALONE 


Without are the drifting snows, 

Within there is unknown speech; 
Something there is must interpose, 

Man is strange to man he knows, 

Coldness instead of warmth he shows 
Where he might kindness teach: 

And one is lonely who might be glad, 
Could a mouthful of native speech be had. 

Without are the drifting snows, 

Around are the unknown tongues; 

The many have in their power the gift 
That loneliness would from the lonely lift, 
If but their attitude they would shift, 

For they know the wanderer’s speech: 

But they heed not the prayer in his eyes 
For the little so-much that speechless cries. 


77 


ESTRANGED 


The loneliness of one outcast lay on his soul, 

Within was burning still the sting of scorn he 
bore ; 

His prospect was dark waves that followed fast to 
shore, 

Where cruel breakers roared and blackness hid his 
goal. 

His lips, firm-set, scarce stifled an unmanly moan, 

And eyes, through restrained tears, sought the 
Eternal Throne 

In wordless speech; Alone! O, leave me not alone! 

That plea was sped by ministers unseen to men. 

Forthwith he knew somewhat of courage lately 
lost, 

First springing of a purpose to oppose what 
crossed 

The ripening of life in duty within ken; 

His new-born purpose bids him seek himself to save, 

And win an honored place beyond the fearful wave. 

His lips relax and breathe the prayer: Bid me be 
brave. 

Black waters surge around him but he fears them 
less; 

His soul, undrowned, recovers somewhat from 
its pain, 

While comradeship unseen aids him to bear the 
strain 


78 


The storm-driven waters in their wildness fiercely 
press 

Upon his course; there is more light, fears slowly 
yield 

Before hope’s rising power. He yet will win the 
field 

Where service finds its need by Love eternal sealed. 


BOTTLE-FED 

Th’ alluring softness of a mother’s breast 
Misfortune to their baby days denied. 

The first strange emptiness from which they cried 
Was not against a bosom’s warmth expressed, 

But by an alien subterfuge suppressed. 

Their later years have with their childhood vied; 
Always, to them, the milk of love denied, 

The essence sweet that others’ ills redressed. 

Incessant hungers all their days infest, 

Insatiates, they, of many foods they’ve tried, 
Still crying, as in babyhood they cried, 

(Their cry by vanity of years repressed) 

For that one lack a mother’s breasts suggest, 

Love, fond caresses, and the joy of rest. 


79 


FROM THE DEPTHS 


We were, — Oh, so happy, Remi and I, 

Before France called him in her noble cause, 

One sweet, long, lovely dream of three glad years — 
More joyful could not be, nor ever was. 

I was grieved when he went yet still was glad, 
Though in a quieter way, for France is dear. 

Baby was with me, and Remi was gay 

As he said, “Goodbye, darling, do not fear.” 

Two years he fought, and failed not to renew, 
With each relief, the memory of our joy 

And hopes that when the Boche was broken quite 
We would rejoice again, we and our boy. 

Three times, on leave, he hastened here to spend 
The precious days our country set him free 

From its brave service with our babe and me. 

Brief glad hours these, more tender lest they’d be 

The last we’d spend together. We could not 
Chase that sad thought, how glad soe’er we were; 

For many came not back. Already five wound-stripes 
On his sleeve, and two decorations fair 

Upon his breast showed he had been full oft 
Among the foremost. Oft I drove away 

The thought that made me shudder ’gainst my will. 
The steel might pierce a vital spot. Then, say, — 


80 


We made our last farewell, both striving still 
To hide in gayety our growing dread. 

That night I wept, when, wearied with his play, 

I laid our baby in his little bed. 

My grief had come to stay. I, who had lived 
A life of laughter, bore a heavy heart 

Thenceforward. Ere a full month had gone by 
Baby was stricken, and we two must part. 

Brief was the fight unconsciously he made 
Against the fever which burned out his life. 

His struggles ended, but they do not fade 

From out my thought, though from the greater 
strife 

Shortly the greater shadow fell. Remi, 

Remi had made the sacrifice complete, 

When many Frenchmen died, as heroes do, 

That France, dear France, that day escape defeat. 

They sent his medal and his cross to me, 

Proud memories of my Remi who has gone; 

But while pride’s salve may soothe, it cannot heal 
The stricken heart two graves have turned to 
stone. 

I go about my work with neither tears 

Nor laughter, and they bid me be discreet. 

I know they fear I shall go mad. What then 
Is madness? If you from a life delete 


81 


All that it was, — mine was joy and laughter — 

Is it more madness that that empty life 

Should be unlike its happy former self 

Than to be like? Tell me, why should its strife 

Be to be what it is not? When the heart 
Is overborne with grief, and numb and cold, 

Would hollow laughter not be mockery, 

And force-made smiles a charnel house unfold? 

I still have France; and, in my stony way, 

I’ll serve her till the heart has ached its last; 

Till on her mangled breast another mound 

Shall mark, of our glad three, the last one passed. 

I see the cure on the street. He goes 

To comfort others who have lost their all. 

A gentle, kind old man, — they say his words 
Help them to bear the loss of those who fall. 

Remi and I, we thought that God and Faith 
Were but the foibles of the feeble mind, 

We loved and laughed and never gave a thought 
To church or creed or ought of sim’lar kind. 

For me, — the burden comfortless, alone, 

Save in the memories of the gladsome past. 

Laughter was mine; now stony grief remains 
Till stone shall rise o’er stony heart at last. 


82 


THE SURRENDER 


They boasted victory when they fought and fled 
From Jutland’s waters and the British fleet; 

Yet, through long waiting, never dared to meet 
The incessant watchers o’er the billows spread. 
Now, ’twixt the gray stern lines that mark the way 
To prison, ’neath their hated foes’ control, 
Inglorious, abject, to its shameful goal 
Their proud armada goes. Not this the day 
They prayed for, built for, longed for through the 
years, 

With tyrant will and murderous hands to press 
Dominion all around by frightfulness. 

Bereft of power, unmasked, vile now appears 
Their vaunting brutal spirit which, in pride, 
Scorned truth, and honor now to them denied. 


83 


WIND OF THE SOUTHLAND 


Wind of the Southland, that should bring 
Warmth and winsomeness of Spring, 

Why this tearful blustering? 

While we list for the robin’s song, 

From first light the whole day long, 

Why should thy fierce outbursts throng? 

Why not in zephyrs gently creep 
Cross the level and the steep, 

Soothing Winter into sleep? 

Why not with sunshine and the blue, 

Of Spring’s gladness, peeping through 
With promises of verdure new? 

Winter’s favors have ceased to please; 
Hearts are longing for leaving trees, 

For nesting birds and crooning bees. 

Wind of the Southland, bring us now 
Singing bird to the swinging bough, 

And pastures green where cattle low. 


84 


HOUSE OF QUIET 


My view, by scrubby trees confined, 

A little house includes, 

But seldom people come to break 
Its quiet solitude. 

A few scrub fowls, of varied hue, 

Scratch here and there around; 

No gardening dreams have e’er disturbed 
The wild things of the ground. 

Sometimes a woman, shoulders bent, 
Moves with uncertain gait 

To hang a dish-rag on a line, 

Or scrape crumbs from a plate. 

At morn and eve an old man comes 
With water-pails to fill; 

But through the hours that lie between 
The house seems to be still. 

No feet of laughing children play 
Around its silent doors, 

From out its windows, shaded low, 

No pleasant music pours. 

Once, like a vision from afar, 

A girl hurried in, 

But quickly hurried out again 
As if a race to win. 


85 


Two lamps are lit at once each dusk, 
Together in one room, 

Then one is carried thence to break 
Another chamber’s gloom. 

Each day, it seems, unchanging, 

Is like the one before; 

There’s little life and little joy 
E’er visits at that door. 


COMING HOME 

For months the ocean vast has rolled between 
The field in which they did their service there 
And that in which we served, the home-land fair. 
Now with us many vacant chairs are seen 
Waiting, mute symbols of the hearts and arms 
That, speaking not, yet utter frequent prayer, 

In voiceless crying to their God to spare 
And bring their loved ones safe from all that harms. 

Martial delusion slowly fades, as sense 
Of lust defeated in its bloody course 
Dawns on the braggarts who, without remorse, 
Now sue for peace. Then to their recompense 
The soldiers of the right come gladly home. 

O ocean! Speed them safely o’er thy foam. 


86 


CHRISTMAS EVE, 1918 


Ye who, for four long years, have bowed in sadness, 
Be glad to-night. 

Let grief, that wrung the heart, now deepen glad¬ 
ness ; 

The world is breaking from its reign of madness; 
Behold the light! 

The souls that gave themselves to bar oppression’s 
sway 

Lift up their scarred and pleading faces to the day; 
To all give right. 

Be glad to-night; 

The ben’son that from Bethlehem’s cradle spread 
Again arises, as new-born from the dead, 

To clear men’s sight; 

That they may see their welfare in each other’s face, 
Their Father’s lineaments in each other trace, 

In Heaven’s clear light. 


87 


SUSPENSE 


Another ache, and then another yet; 

The oft-repeated question of the eye; 

Breathing uneven, tense, almost a sigh; 

The fear as of an overhanging debt; 

Watching the mail route, where the box is set, 
With eager, anxious, swift-returning gaze, 
Which, of itself, sufficiently betrays 
Unspoken dread of evil fortune met. 

The postman passes. Oh! Why comes there not 
Through all those weary days some tidings clear, 
Some news of home-bound loving footsteps near, 
A joyful presence that is ne’er forgot? 

How long must hearts be lonely and still bear 
Without relief save in unanswered prayer! 


88 


GONE 


He is gone. Dead! He who stood to the last, 

In the fight for bread, that his home might be 
A shelter love ruled, not necessity; 

And stricken there, like a soldier he passed. 

His warfare ended, his duty complete, 

No discords break his spirit’s deep repose; 

But, in rest where disturber never goes, 

He waits his body from its winding-sheet. 

Gone! “Gone West.” ’Tis a worthy phrase they use 
When soldier-comrades at their side are slain. 
The West is glorious, if ’tis full of pain, 

When day departs. Are not its glorious views, 
Which, elsewhere, break in morn as night falls here, 
Assurance of that morn, beyond life’s veil, 
Where other spheres the parting spirits hail, 

And life is strong again when day is clear? 


89 


COMFORT 


A speck of blue amid the ashen gray, 

A tiny brightening of the darkened sky, 

A hope of fairer weather almost here, 

Earnest of good throughout the passing year; 

The first clear note of a glad thankful cry 
That bursts forth, unrestrained, like some fair ray 
Which from a pure and lustrous sphere o’erhead, 
Unpurposed, is in its effulgence shed. 

A word of cheer when woes and dirges sound, 

A hand which thrusts aside our darksome dreads, 
And rends the veil of mist, that grief o’erspreads, 
With strong assurance good shall yet abound; 

And that, as after rain fresh clouds return, 

So shall the sun again their masses spurn. 


90 


CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS 


Our bread upon the waters? We whose strength 
From day to day by scant supply maintains 
Its waning power against our journey’s strains, 
And threatens failure ere we come, at length, 
Where we desire. From that spent store shall we 
Give bread who scarce a crumb have left to feed 
The hungry sparrow who proclaims his need, 
And asks our pity from his near-by tree. 

If crumbs we take, the sparrow hungry goes; 

If bread unbroken, we must share his lot; 
Tighten our girdles, and eschew the pot, 

Lest, empty, it remind us of our woes. 

Shall man and sparrow both an-hungered fast 
That on the waters all their food be cast? 

The waters through their many courses gain 
The changeful, wide, and deep mysterious sea, 
That filling, never fills but sets them free, 

By nature’s alchemy, to reach again 
The place from which they came. Then may our 
bread 

In manner like, by alchemy more rare, 

Be from those waters borne again with care 
Back to the hand by which it first was spread. 

Who gives, receives. With added benison 

The gift returns, though none can see the cord 
That binds the gifts from out our scanty hoard 


9i 


To those received, nor tell the course they’ve run; 
Only, upon the waters’ bosom cast, 

Bread comes again after due season past. 

Our bread! Our life! Not one sustaining sheaf 
From God’s great wheat-field that around us lies, 
But all we garner, through our many ties, 

Be cast upon the waters, as a leaf 
To float away upon the streamlet’s breast. 

All of our life! Then all our life must be 
Worthy if it would re-act worthily 
Upon our fellows in the path to rest. 

We give it to the waters knowing not 

To whom, nor when, nor where, it comfort lends; 
The hand that gave it other mercies sends, 

Our daily bread, proof we are not forgot; 

From source to sea, from sea to source they flow 
In mystic movement nought can e’er o’erthrow. 


92 









* 


* 




-- 








I 


\ 




I 







s 



